


The One with the Seashell Bra

by waltzmatildah



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10926675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: TFLN prompt,(518): I have a very hazy flashback of me making out with a guy in a seashell bra??! Can you confirm or deny?





	The One with the Seashell Bra

It’s not until she’s scrolling through the images, captured on her phone by someone who obviously thought it a good idea at the time, that the pieces start to fall a little more completely into place.

She remembers, albeit vaguely, pigeons. Though she half suspects they were on the television and not in her actual living room. Pecking about on the rug she woke up on at 5am, carpet pile patterned across her forehead and left cheek.

She also remembers cheese whizz. Though, to be honest, she’d rather she didn't.

The sun is beginning its long ascent into day time and she feels betrayed by its very presence. The curtains are askew and a slash of too bright daylight is splitting her face in two.

Before and after.

She rolls off the couch slowly, drops to all fours on the floor to get out of the sun’s path as she taps out a message to Cristina. Slow and steady and with her eyes widened fiercely to maintain their focus on the iridescent screen.

_I have a very hazy flashback of me making out with a guy in a seashell bra??! Can you confirm or deny?_

Can’t actually remember Cristina being at the party to start with, but figures she must have been. Somewhere.

Surely?

It was her freaking party after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She crab-crawls her way to the bottom of the stairs then as she waits for a reply. Struggles up the first half dozen or so and prays for the shift in altitude to raise her clarity of thought along with it. _Please._

She will not vomit on her own carpet.

Using the banister, she suddenly finds her feet beneath her and with enough purchase that standing, walking, placing one foot in front of the other, might actually be a viable option. With her palm heavily against the plasterboard she makes her way up the rest of the stairs and half-way along the corridor.

Peers into Alex’s room in a bid to determine just how many victims Cristina’s divorce party actually claimed.

Her blood turns to ice then. Ices and then disappears completely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She can see a strap over one shoulder. Thin, like packing string. And something that is not alcohol poisoning shifts the contents of her stomach violently. She inches further into his room, breath held and eyes mostly shut. As if not seeing will make it not true.

She already knows that it is.

Her fingers twitch as she presses them shakily towards the sheet he has tangled across his shoulders, wrapped tightly around one bent leg.

She grits her teeth then, determined; drags the cotton towards her quickly and with purpose.

He jerks awake, sits bolt upright and fades to pale, pale white as she watches him forcefully refuse to succumb to his own rebellious insides. The string has loosened in sleep, the shells have slipped to mid-chest; are hanging just below the first slash of scar tissue that splits his rib-cage.

If she is distracted by his stomach muscles, it is only momentarily.

She hopes.

Time has lost all sense of meaning, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She can feel her fingers against her lips. Taste the lemon that still lingers there. A tangy reminder of the tequila she’d practically bathed in not hours earlier.

“You…” she whispers, shocked despite the quick mental preparation she’d just done for this moment.

His eyes bulge comically then, widen in his head for a beat before dropping floor-ward slowly, taking her in with a rapidly increasing degree of panic she’d find insulting if it were anyone else.

She figures it’s probably the hula skirt that he remembers first. It is a very memorable outfit after all…

“Oh, crap…” he breathes, and she squints against the alcoholic vapours. “ _You..._ ”

She nods slowly in horrified confirmation. Can manage very little else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What did we do?”

She thinks he might be about to cry. Which she totally gets.

Totally.

But she shrugs instead of telling him this, shrugs because it’s the truth. She has no freaking clue.

“I mean, did we…”

He trails off, like saying the words might be just enough to make them real.

She shrugs again, teams the motion with an, _“I don’t think so, but…”_

Lets the last word hang uselessly between them. An almost tangible entity in its own right.

“Oh, crap.” On repeat. “ _Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap._ ”

He sinks back to his pillow as the words tumble out of him.

“You get that this means you’re totally doomed now, right?”

“Doomed?” she parrots, confused. Again.

_Still._

“You’ll be in the psych. ward by Tuesday. Tops.” He grins, lopsided. And she takes the gesture for what it is. An awkward peace offering of sorts.


End file.
